A Thorn by Another Name
by LobstarMonstar
Summary: The last person she ever expected to need her is also the last one who'd ever admit it. The last person she ever expected to care about is also the only one she shouldn't. And she wants nothing but to help him, mortality be damned. CHAPTER 3? FINALLY UP.
1. Chapter 1

Even with her face half-covered by a steel helmet, people can still tell she's searching. It's in the way she walks, in the way her head faces each corner of the tavern, in the way she turns to every person in the room before slumping her shoulders in defeat. She would stop to ask questions most other days, but this time she just asks for a room with a bed and a door. No one sees her until morning, but they're certain they hear voices from inside the room. No one enters, no one leaves.

This is the third time this week.

* * *

><p>A few people glanced up from their drinks when she walked in, but she was worth no more attention than that. Another traveler, possibly one of the Imperials (no, her armor was all wrong for that) passing through. Whiterun saw many of those, stopping by to use the Skyforge or buy some potions, and maybe stay the night if the weather was bad enough. It was no surprise when the traveler, face covered by her helmet, began making her way toward the bar.<p>

A man struck up friendly conversation with her, and challenged her to a drinking contest. No one but her knew that his name was Sam Guevenne, and by the time she learned it, she was already too drunk to care.

* * *

><p>There's a new bard in the tavern tonight. He's a young boy, fresh out of college, with a tambourine and a high voice. She asks him is he's new in town. He says yes. She asks him if he's been traveling through other inns in other towns. He says yeah, he's on his way to Solitude. She tells him if he meets anyone named Sam Guevenne, to send word back here right away. He asks her who to send the couriers to. She says tell him to look for the Dragonborn.<p>

The bard doesn't believe her, but agrees anyway. It doesn't matter though: he won't meet anyone by the name of Sam Guevenne, because Sam Guevenne doesn't exist.

* * *

><p>She held the crooked, gaudy staff in her hands, mindful of the shark spikes lining its handle. Fashioned into the shape of a rose, it looked almost ridiculous when compared to the person it was named after. She looked this person in the eyes, and saw that they were the same color as the staff; it was his namesake, after all.<p>

She thanked Sanguine for the staff before disappearing.

* * *

><p>She rolls the Sanguine Rose across her lap, watching the light play off its dull, abused spikes. She wants to bring it to the Forge and repair it, make it good as new, but an amateur blacksmith like her can't take a hammer to the enchanted metal, and she doesn't trust it in any other hands. She reaches into her armor and pulls out a leather pouch, much emptier than she remembers it being. She upends it on the bed and two gems fall out.<p>

The larger one is nearly ten times the size of the smaller one, and much heavier. She grabs it and rolls it in her palm, weighing them against each other. Would the smaller one be enough? Would she have to use the larger one?

She uses her last grand soul gem to charge the staff. She sticks the smaller one in the pouch and puts it back in her armor.

* * *

><p>The staff was almost forgotten by the time she left Morvunskar. All thoughts of drunken nights on the town had left her mind. Another day, another episode, another weapon. She made plans to pawn it off at the nearest town on her way back up the mountain.<p>

It wasn't until she was sprawled across the ground, dizzy from impact, that she realized she needed help. A frost troll loomed over her, a reminder that she was no longer within the safe walls of Whiterun, roaring and snarling its battle cries. The same cries were echoed from either side of the snowdrift, and more trolls poured out of the woodwork.

As she reached for her weapon, her hand bumped the polished metal of an ugly staff. She could have drawn her sword to fight (to run). She could have saved herself. But instead she brandished the staff at the troll and gave it an investigational wave.

She prayed for a miracle (for something exciting). Sanguine smiled upon at least one of those requests.

* * *

><p>"I can't buy stolen goods," the shopkeeper says with finality. The traveler closes her fist around the necklace, grimacing. "I made it. I mined the silver and amethyst myself."<p>

"If you really need the money, how about that armor? Steel is pretty expensive nowadays. I'll give you a good price for it.

She shakes her head. "I can't go without armor."

"Or the sword, eh? I don't think you can travel without that, either."

"I need my sword."

"You've got that staff there, it looks pretty old but it can probably do some damage."

She glares at him, fire in her eyes, and he backs off. After a sigh, she slips her gauntlets off and puts them on the counter.

She gets enough money for a couple of soul gems.

* * *

><p>It was just a Draugr, she told herself. She could handle zombies. Stop overreacting.<p>

Lungs searing, sword arm on fire, she allowed herself to overreact just a little bit. She wanted nothing more than to leave this crypt, treasure be damned. She threw back another potion and felt a little better, but found her supply dwindling.

When she reached to find another bottle, her hand instead closed around the smooth rose-shaped staff. She used it.

* * *

><p>As soon as she's alone, her hand instinctively closes around the staff. She uses it.<p>

* * *

><p>What was at first bright light seemed to become a black hole, making the crypt even darker as it became solid. A blur of red and black moved alongside her, its sword swinging in tune with hers, aiding her in expelling the corpses. Absently, she counted the seconds, ticking by slowly how long she had until she was on her own again.<p>

The zombies were gone quite suddenly. She felt eyes on her, and this time, it was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

"Again, mortal?" the one summoned by the staff drawled. His voice was deep and slow, unlike his lord's. It was also annoyed. "It's beyond even my understanding how you have survived for so long, if you find it necessary to call for help with such frequency. Unless, that is, you are simply lazy."

She bristled at his words, but refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. "Actually," she tossed out, "I was hoping to get the name of the Dremora who's been so helpful, if a little condescending." It wasn't an outright lie, since she'd found herself curious as to what identity to stick to his face. It did wander into her thoughts more often than usual lately.

Really, she wanted an excuse to have summoned him.

"You want my name?" he repeated, letting his voice carry in the dank crypt. "Then you are out of luck! I do not have one that is unique to myself. What do you think me, a god?" He laughed harshly at his own comparison.

"Then perhaps give me a title? I realize our time is limited."

He stopped laughing. "A mortal wants to address me by title? Oh, how proper! A churl could do the same!"

"So I will have nothing to call you." She coaxed.

"All you need to know is that I am a Kynreeve, one of the highest in the Dremora line. It's not something that I expect a mortal to understand, but the fact that I can speak to you is proof of it."

"Okay then," she challenged, desperate to get the last word in, "I guess I'll have to call you Kynreeve then."

His lip curled up. "You intend to call me, call upon me, further?"

"For as long as you'll come."

As he started to fade, his glare met hers. "I cannot turn down a summons."

* * *

><p>The glow slowly moves from lighting the room to sucking the light right out of it, telling her that she's not alone. The Dremora's blank eyes are the first thing she sees, not even realizing she's begun counting the seconds. They pass too quickly. Counting down how long she has until she's left alone.<p>

"Kynreeve," she says simply. Sadly.

"Mortal."

"I've run out of gems."

He nods in understanding. "You've run out before."

"I had things to sell before. I have nothing to my name now but what I'm wearing."

"And the staff."

"And the staff."

"Were it not for the staff, you would be in no short supply of gems, among other things."

"The staff is worth it."

"I daresay it is."

They're silent for a few precious seconds. She fills it hastily. "I don't care what it takes."

"You're going to keep using the staff."

"I'm not going to leave you."

He laughs, a deep and melancholy sound. "You can do nothing for me, my mortal." When she opens her mouth to protest, he grows angry. "You owe me nothing! You can give me nothing! You should leave me be!"

Her mouth hardens into a line. "And yet you continue to come."

His arms cross with a series of protests from his armor. "I cannot turn down a summons."

He says he cannot, but she knows he means he will not.

She hopes he will not.

* * *

><p>The first time she called him without need of aid, it was night in the hills surrounding Markarth. She looked toward the town walls, with intents of entering eventually. It wasn't entirely her decision to pull out the staff, but once she'd waved it she knew exactly what she wanted to ask.<p>

"Why do you fight, Kynreeve?"

The Dremora casted around for signs of danger, before taking in the Dragonborn's frame, lazily and carelessly laying on a hay pile. "What foolishness is this?" he hissed, sheathing his sword, "You've called upon me for no reason?"

"I have a reason," she objected, rolling onto her side to see him, "it was to ask you that question."

He snarled at her. "Why do I fight? I fight for my lord! I fight to prove the supremacy of my kind, though incomprehensible to this plane it may be. I fight for bloodshed, for the sight of my foes falling."

She shook her head, bringing her hand back to grab the staff. "You fight by yourself for those reasons. But why do you fight beside me?"

"I fight because you call me to."

Her mouth drooped into an expression of thought. "Because I hold the staff, right?"

"Because I am bound to the staff."

"Do you have a choice whether or not to come?"

"It is my choice. But my lord wished that I heed the command of the staff. Thus I will."

"What would he do if you didn't heed it?"

His booming laughter was like the barking of hellhounds. "What better expression of debauchery than to neglect it! No, he cares not for my fidelity to a mortal artifact. My return is based on naught but my own will, Nord. I can take my leave of you at any time of my choosing!"

"Indeed," she agreed delicately, "and I thank you for not doing so."

"Why do you want me here, mortal? What purpose do I serve in being here?"

His question was not immediately answered, for at that moment his body wavered and flickered from existence. The traveler was already raising the staff again, calling him back to her.

He was met first by her calculated response. "Why are you here? For the same reason you came in the first place. Because you wanted to. Were that not the case, you could be elsewhere. I realize that. This meeting is on your terms."

He peered down at her from his haughty, upturned face in satisfaction. "You'd do well to remember that, mortal. But here remains the fact that you conjured me, that half of the decision being your own. And here remains my question as to why."

"I wanted to ask you that question. And I did."

"A question! How understandable, the Nord can't find a book to stick her nose into, so she summons a Daedric warrior to sate her petty curiosities! Forgive me for not remembering how lazy you are."

"A book couldn't tell me whether or not you want to be here."

"I do nothing I don't 'want' to do. Of course I am not simply here for your entertainment! Did not it suit my liking to remain, I'd be gone! You'd continue swinging that staff, filled to the brim with mundane inquiries, and they would never be answered because your Dremora slave couldn't be bothered to come wipe the gruel from your chin."

"I don't see you as a slave. Far from it, actually. I just want to know why you haven't refused me your presence if you feel used."

He sneered widely, looking like a ghoul in the moonlight. "I have not left because it pleases me to be here. Even in your company, I prefer this plane to the one I'd otherwise be in."

Too many more seconds ticked by in the silence that followed, before she realized she could not leave the conversation on such a note. "If you could, you'd be here all the time, wouldn't you?"

He paused, and his voice dropped to a deep, rumbling murmur. "If I didn't have to return to Oblivion, I would not."

That was all she needed to know.

* * *

><p>The traveler returns to Morvunskar, again scouring every chest for any artifact she can find. When she sees a glimmer of pale purple light, she lunges for it, but what her hands close around is an amethyst, not an enchanted gem. She slips it into an empty pocket along with an ingot of silver, calculating how much they'll sell for when crafted into a necklace. It's not enough. She lifts a half-empty bottle of poison from the corpse of an unfortunate apprentice mage.<p>

She's heard that soul gems are cheaper in Winterhold. But she can no longer make that type of journey. Not without proper equipment; not without money.

She's decided to sell her armor.

She doesn't plan to travel far from Whiterun, since that was where she first saw Sam. The town was familiar enough; she could easily subsist on the nearby farms.

Pickpocketing gems from the Dragonsreach mages.

She's not sure how much longer she can go on like this.

"You are in no danger," he remarked pointlessly.

"Right. I already killed everyone. Quite a while ago, in fact."

"And yet I am here."

"Yes. You see, this is Morvunskar, the place where Sanguine initially sent me to find him. Though he wasn't here in the castle; he opened a portal which led me to him. I hoped to find the portal again."

"Why are you seeking my lord?"

She turned to him and took a deep breath before answering, slowly and carefully. "To ask him to unbind you from this staff."

His crystalline brows knitted first in outrage, then confusion. "What inane purpose could you possibly serve by doing that?"

"Of course, I could disenchant the staff on my own, but that would only banish you from Nirn." She meets his eyes. "I want to bind you to something that would keep you here."

He froze, searching her face for any sign of deceit or malice. "Never have I heard such committed and stupid words come from a mouth at the same time."

She resisted the urge to break his gaze out of shame. "Is that not something you want?"

"It is not something you could offer! A mortal could never have the means to do something of that nature. My kind does not belong on Nirn. I am fated to return to the Planes of Oblivion, and no human could change that."

"That's why I'm looking for Sanguine."

He met her with a sidelong glance. "The day my lord does a thing for you is the day I dare to hope."

She held up the staff, which, as she had last checked, was a thing.

* * *

><p>She finds a brood of mages camping inside the southern watchtower. She would've skipped right over them, had they not had the misfortune of mistaking her for a vulnerable farmer, thanks to her lack of proper armor. As she slides the last one off of her sword, magicka crackling and dying, a feeling of excitement, and dread, overtakes her.<p>

She forces herself still, and calmly, with only the slightest tremble in her step, makes her way to their arrangement of tents.

When she sees the runes of arcane enchantments, her heart flies to her throat. She abandons the charade of composure, and stumbles over herself in her great compulsion to reach them. Her bare hands come down on an altar of enchantment, sending small dagger sheaths and hunks of iron ore clattering away at her touch.

Her hand flies to a lockbox, which she sees wasn't closed properly, rendering its sophisticated lock useless. She throws it open, eyes wide, and watches in elation as a pale pink glow is cast about the altar, throwing the arcane runes into an eerie light.

She counts three, four, five gems, all aglow like flames. Her hand floats out in front of her, a bare-skinned phantom, collecting each one as though it were a precious egg or a delicate flower, and holding it in sanctuary against her chest. The Sanguine Rose is already in her other hand, proffering it to the gems as though it were a sacrifice or a banquet.

She watches as the gems react, the magic within them turn into dust, into mist, into air, swirling about the staff as a miniature gale, then cease to be. Her precious gems were converted into more-precious time, starting the instant she swings the staff.

The Kynreeve appears before her yet again, but this time she does not greet him with a question, or any other arrangement of words. Instead, they size each other up for a moment: he looking dignified as ever, she in a toiler's clothes.

She takes a few steps forward, arms extended, and embraces the Daedra, uttering a single question:

"What have I done wrong?"

He, not knowing the value of the gesture, remains stoic and watches the top of her head.

"Tried to help me, mortal. That will be your only downfall."

* * *

><p>"It's been weeks," was the first thing she said after summoning him.<p>

He shook his head. "I told you to give up, human."

"I won't."

"Why are you so stubborn? Nothing I do can dissuade you. Perhaps next time I'll fail to appear, just so you can cease this fool's errand!"

"You don't have to thank me."

He lashed out, toppling an arrangement of bowls from the dresser beside him. With another motion, they hit the wall opposite, splintering. Still unsatisfied, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "I should be cursing you! Why do you continue to tease me so? Do you pity me, mortal? Is that your reason for attempting the impossible?"

She winced and stared at the wall roughly above his shoulder.

"How foolish I have been to be tempted by this woman! Her honeyed words are as naïve as the rest of the races of Nirn. With more foresight, I never would have appeared to you! I would have let you believe the staff broken. I would have left you to the trolls. I would have spared myself any false hope. I pray it's not too late to take that opportunity."

He let go of her and spun on his heel. Without a second thought, her hand flew out and grabbed him by the arm. "Wait!" she cried, only then realizing that he'd be able to feel nothing through the bulk of his armor. He paused in mid-retreat anyway.

"What words have you for me?" he growled, voice dropping dangerously low, low enough to send chills up her spine.

"I don't tease you. I don't pity you. I wish to help."

"Who are you to help me?" He sneered back at her.

"A fellow warrior. An ally. Right now, a companion," she added experimentally, sizing up his response.

"The word is familiar."

"Not all has to hinge on battle."

"If you can separate anything from battle," he said, turning once more to see her, "I will gladly be your companion."

* * *

><p>"It's been months," is the first thing she says after summoning him. "I told you I wouldn't give up."<p>

"And I told you it was a fool's errand," he says idly.

"So you did," she agrees, sadly running her fingers over the staff.

"And you're giving up now."

"I didn't say that."

"It's what you wish to say." He places his hands on her shoulders gently. She winces.

"I wish to say that I've succeeded."

"I wish you not to lie."

Her laughter is choked and bitter. "And you have been my companion this entire time. There have been no battles."

"Reasoning with you is battle enough. Though I have found you to be companionable, so yes. I did hold up my end of the bargain."

"I… I'm afraid I could not do the same."

"I thought you weren't giving up."

She turns on her heel and shrugs off his hands, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't want to."

"I understand. It was my fault for allowing myself to hope."

She pivots again, catching him in a glare; cheeks high and red, eyes fiery and wet. "What have I done wrong?" she hisses through her teeth, squinting to see him better through a blurry veil.

Their eyes lock. For an instant, she doesn't see blank concrete. For a moment, he doesn't see her mortality. For the first time, minding not her pale skin but her colorful mind, he pulls her into an embrace. He knows not how it feels through his armor, though he does know what it means. This is a gesture she's taught him. He can give back that much.

"Nothing, mortal."

The words ring until his arms disappear from around her. When she opens her eyes, he's gone.

* * *

><p>A few weeks ago, the Dragonborn hid a soul gem in a tree trunk in the middle of a forest, knowing she'd need it.<p>

* * *

><p>Today, she knows it's time. She returns to the spot in the dead of night and reaches her arm into the trunk, half-hoping that someone has found it and stolen it.<p>

Her hand closes around it. She sighs in relief and sorrow.

For the last time, she takes the Sanguine Rose from her back. Hands shaking, the two items come together. The gem disappears. The staff is charged.

With her lips set, she summons the Dremora.

* * *

><p>"Why don't you like being in Oblivion?" she asked him as innocently as possible.<p>

When he turned his patronizing gaze toward her, it softened. "Nirn is a beautiful place," he answered simply.

"Is Oblivion not beautiful? I've never been."

"Ah," he responded, eyes searching some faraway place for memories. "So you wouldn't know the torture it is to be there. The black of night, visible through the daytime. The ceaseless crowd of bodies, each seeking something different, yet always similar. The inescapable din of crowds and hedonistic delights, the tantalizing Mazken, the drunken Aureals." He spat on the ground in disgust. "I'd rather be here, away from that. And Sanguine's realms hold nothing and no one for me."

Nodding, but not taking in the full meaning of his words, she asked, "What does Skyrim hold?"

In the silence that followed, they both realized there might have been an obvious answer to that question. The Daedra cleared his throat and supplied it, though in a much more diluted manner than they'd both been thinking. "I do quite enjoy the conversation I get here."

She couldn't help but smirk, casting him a sidelong glance. "You enjoy talking to me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You're not the only one here who can talk."

"There's no one else you talk to."

"I'd enjoy conversation with any creature intelligent enough to compose speech."

"So you do enjoy it."

A slight pause. "Yes, I do," he conceded.

* * *

><p>He appears with as little fanfare as ever. When he sees her face, he nods.<p>

She nods back, even though she doesn't know exactly what they've told each other.

He steps forward, looking more like a Daedric statue in the moonlight than ever before. It isn't until he's feet away that the small movements of his face are visible. The corners of his mouth turn down.

"You do not intend to use the staff again, am I correct?" he asks.

She clutches it to her chest, mirroring his frown. "I don't."

He solemnly nods. "It will be better that way." He reaches out a single hand and his fingers curl around the staff. He tugs lightly, expecting her to allow it to slide out of her hands. But if anything, she grips it tighter.

The Dremora sighs and grips the Sanguine Rose with his other hand. She expects him to tear it away from her, and she knows she couldn't win that fight. Instead, he steps closer, holding it between them gently. The metal handle is the only thing separating them, after it being for so long what was holding them together.

Their eyes don't leave each other's.

"Will things be better?" she finally asks, wanting reassurance more than anything. He nods, again tugging on the staff. "Everything will be better."

"What if it's not?" She plants her feet and braces herself, prepared to fight to maintain her grip. "Then," he answers sternly, "this will be one less thing to worry about."

She bites back the angry objection that springs to her lips, steadying her body and voice. There's so much she's wanted to say, but now none of it will come out. There's not enough time, she wants to complain, just let me think for a minute.

"I understand how you feel," the Daedra says helpfully, but she just shakes her head. He presses on, "I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here, and yes, I am grateful."

She lets out a sigh which accidentally turns into a sob. She claps a defensive hand over her mouth, wishing to take back the sound, not wanting to ruin their last conversation with a display of weakness. Unable to think of anything to say, she just slides her remaining hand down the staff, resting it on the Kynreeve's. She's still not sure if he can feel it.

He slides the staff away from her, stepping back slowly. Her suddenly-empty hand reaches out for the staff (for him) of its own accord, and she has to lower it. As he steps further and further away, he says over the widening gap, "And thank you, for all you've done. I've had no greater pleasure."

She opens her mouth to speak again, but at that moment, he raises the staff above his head using both hands. With a single sweeping movement, he snaps the Sanguine Rose over his knee.

The Dragonborn cries out as he does it, taking a vain step forward. He holds the two halves in his hands, looking at her, and the two of them are frozen.

The sixty-second mark passes. She knows it; she's gotten very good at counting minutes at a time. She doesn't take her eyes from him, doesn't blink, afraid she'll miss the moment when he ceases to exist with her.

He drops the now-useless metal on the ground to either side of him, a smirk (or a smile) blooming across his face as he speaks again, stepping forward to pull her into his arms. "By the way, Sanguine says hi."


	2. Chapter 2

He can't go with her to Sovngarde.

She expected that, really, but it's still unnerving to suddenly be alone. Yes, she owes her life to her Daedric companion on numerous accounts, but that doesn't mean (as he came to agree, eventually) that she can't hold her own behind a blade.

But when she falls back into Tamriel, panting, sweating, dry heaving on her hands and knees, and he has to carry her to her horse, she realizes that getting saved isn't all that bad, even when she knows she can handle herself.

And though he would never admit it, he knows she can. But he still tells her through his actions that she's the most fragile thing in existence, in need of his constant worry and reprimand.

He's terrified that it might actually be true.

* * *

><p>As they lie in their shared bed in the half-empty tavern (innkeepers often need only a little coercing to let her hooded friend into the joint, as long as gold is involved), he talks to her differently than he does when they're outside. As though this room can not only hear his voice, lowered though it may be, but also keep the secrets he tells her safe from the open sky.<p>

She still gets shivers when he runs his fingers through her hair, holding the strands up to the light and inspecting them as though he'll find some secret hidden in the way the candle on the end table reflects off of each individual one.

"Do you like my hair?" she lightly teases, shaking her head and letting it fall across her face. His gaze shifts from her shoulder to her eyes, his own softening but unblinking.

"You do realize that you are a work of art, yes?"

She shifts uncomfortably, burrowing deeper into the hay mattress. "You keep telling me that."

"Hair like the sun is something to be appreciated. Perhaps you've taken it for granted."

The Dragonborn turns her head halfway into her pillow, face flushed with guilt she wishes she would stop feeling with every conversation. "It's hard not to get used to something I see every day, you should try it. Every Nord has the same exact hair," she adds, "it's not that special."

"And your eyes," he continues, smirking at her objection but otherwise ignoring it, "a shade you can only find in the skies of Nirn. You know," he digresses, eyes misting over with recollection, "I tried to find that color in Oblivion. Not a single place had it. For a realm so devoted to pleasure, it lacked the one thing that would make me happy." Ignoring her arched eyebrow, he hooks a finger under her chin and pulls it away from the pillow, tilting her face up toward his.

She can't resist looking at him, stubbornly pursing her lips and examining his eyes to find fuel for a rebuttal. What she sees is like gray glass, un-textured and unmoving. She lets him press on.

"Like little blue veins, or rivers," he whispers to himself, smirking as the fire vanishes from her expression, "maybe what stars in the night sky look like when viewed from up close." He leans in, brushing away her hair and pretending not to notice the way she momentarily panics. She can feel her own breath bouncing off of his chin, but the Dremora has eyes only for hers.

When he speaks, it's as though he never paused and isn't any closer to her than is strictly necessary. "How fortunate for me that you are so very different from what I'm used to."

"You're pretty different yourself," she counters with more of an edge than she intends. "Who else do I know with skin like charcoal? And eyes like glass?"

His smirk doesn't falter when he rolls away from her, still taking up most of the bed. "I'm the only one," he concedes, though it doesn't feel like a victory to the Nord.

The Dragonborn wastes no time in turning away to blow out the candle on the end table, settling back onto the mattress next to her sleeping partner and pretending to fall asleep instantly.

In reality, she feels much too exhilarated by the realness of what he just said to sleep.

* * *

><p>They decide to build a house in Winterhold. It's a decision more out of necessity than preference. The Dragonborn, having fulfilled what she's been told is her life's purpose, says she wants somewhere safe to return to. The Dremora, feeling at home no matter where he is, agrees.<p>

Winterhold is the most obvious choice. The company she now keeps is by no means socially acceptable, and after yet another run-in with a cast of terrified guards (Arkay keep them, she thinks amusedly), she's terrified by the prospect of having to hide her own companion away from the world.

They find respite at the College, which itself is a host to no small number of socially unacceptable alumni. Her Kynreeve is still subject to baffled, even hateful stares, but here they don't have to worry about unprovoked attack. It's still preferred that they sleep somewhere other than the Hall of Attainment, though.

There is no better place for them. Even the guards that watch the two companions walking between the inn and the College bridge have nothing to say. Not in front of them, anyway. But when the town catches wind that the Dragonborn has contracted a team to build a house in the ruins of old Winterhold, a general unease befalls it.

Watching the foundation of her—their—house take shape, the Dragonborn once says to her companion, "I sense mutiny building."

"You're not talking about the house, are you?" he responds from under his traveling cloak.

"People don't want us here," she states bluntly, if a little amusedly.

He chuckles darkly. "People don't want us anywhere. This is a good a spot as any."

She agrees, and they leave it at that.

* * *

><p>Generally, they have to stay off of main roads and away from towns. They have yet to find a carriage that will let her cloaked companion ride, no matter how much gold they offer. She assumes it has something to do with the giant blade slung across his back, nearly as long as any man is tall. Maybe, though, it's because no horse will stay calm long enough for him to get near.<p>

So they travel on foot.

Between the walking that occupies most of their daylight hours, if they can find an inn they stay at it. But they often end up sleeping outdoors, and she would easily bet every last bit of their money that he prefers it that way.

Needless to say, he likes it outside. He likes it everywhere. That's why they're not going anywhere.

Of course, they're moving. Every day they cover land, but not in any particular direction. She wants to be his tour guide for everything her world has to offer, and she likes to think of it as her restitution for so long taking everything for granted, as he so often reminds her. He never bothers to tell her that he's not serious.

* * *

><p>When they get back to Winterhold, they're greeted by the discovery that what was going to be their house is now a square patch of smoldering cinders. The builders are all absent, and the block is suspiciously free of guards and townspeople too. Surprisingly, standing next to the burned foundation, the two travelers are the only thing out of place in the dilapidated portion of the town.<p>

All she can think to say when they turn to each other is, "I told you people don't want us here."

They share an entirely inappropriate chuckle, cynical and derisive, which escalates into full-blown laughter, roaring yet muffled by the wind and snow. She collapses onto him, clutching the front of his cloak to hold herself up.

They laugh because there's nothing else to do. By the time they're done, she's shed a couple of tears, and she's not sure whether or not they're from the laughter.

* * *

><p>When they finally bed down for the night, it's in an abandoned bandit camp inside of a cave, set into the cliffs surrounding Winterhold. They had no choice but to leave town, since the inn was suspiciously locked when they neared it (even though they could clearly see lights on inside).<p>

They sit on one of the bedrolls, watching a snowstorm rage outside, neither bothering to light a fire. But she can tell that he's not fully invested in snow-watching, because every time she glances over he's staring shamelessly at her. Self-conscious, she begins staring back.

"What? Is it my hair again? I'm taking it for granted by sitting here, not worshipping it, right? Or is it my eyes? My skin? The snow? What, pray tell, am I missing the beauty of here? Is this somehow the most exquisite cave you've ever laid your eyes on? Or is this air particularly nice? Please, let me in on what exactly you're thinking!"

He scowls. "You're not okay, are you?" he finally asks, voice low. The question catches her off guard, and she has to think about what he might mean by it before considering an answer. He saves her by continuing, "You're unused to being chased out of town. I can tell it bothered you."

She scoffs and looks back out toward the snow. "That's ridiculous. Why would I care if a few of the closed-minded rabble disapprove of the company I keep? There are much better places to live."

He remains unconvinced. "Yet you're fully aware that you'll be met with the same reaction anywhere."

"Yes, I am," she cuts in, eyes narrowing in a sidelong glare, "but you fail to realize how little I care."

His smirk returns as he shifts his gaze back to the snow, and he humors her with the slightest laugh. "Your tears earlier said otherwise."

* * *

><p>The next morning, a student from the College ventures into town to drop off some enchanted necklaces with a courier, and finds the entire town slaughtered in the streets and in their beds.<p>

The student, terrified, runs back up the bridge to tell the Arch-Mage what happened, and not one person has any doubt about who's responsible.

As he walked away, the murderer remarked that, perhaps, too many people were taking life for granted.

* * *

><p>"Did you hear?" the barmaid asks conversationally while handing a loaf of bread over the counter.<p>

The Dragonborn doesn't pause in slipping the purchased food into her knapsack. "About what?"

The barmaid leans over the counter, biting her lip and glancing around as though about to impart some particularly juicy gossip (as though the entire town didn't know already). "Winterhold," she breathes, eyes widening with enthusiasm, "completely wiped out. They were warned about those College types, but finally something did 'em in."

The Dragonborn stops what she's doing and leans in, now entirely concerned. "What?"

"Yeah," the barmaid gushes, ecstatic that she's found someone who hasn't yet heard, "the College swears it wasn't them though, says some Daedric Prince did it." Her eyes are wild with ill-contained laughter. "Can you believe it? But they won't get away with it, oh no, there's a whole team gonna go up there and repay the College what they done. Let's see how those mages like real knives!" She goes back to wiping the counter, gauging her customer's reaction to her news. The Nord is satisfyingly speechless. "But who cares anyway? It was just Winterhold, and a bunch of mages no one cares about. S'what they get for sticking their nose into dark stuff they're not supposed to."

"That's pretty nasty news," the Dragonborn finally responds, turning away with feigned calmness, "I'd hate to live there."

She's out of the city gates in record time, knapsack bouncing behind her, returning at full-tilt to their camp under the cliffs surrounding Windhelm. Her Daedric friend is waiting for her, sword half-embedded in a still-squirming fawn as he turns his head.

She pauses to watch in fascination as he twists the blade, stilling the animal. "That was fast," he remarks, nonchalantly pulling his weapon from the corpse.

"You didn't tell me about what you did at Windhelm," she blurts, slightly breathless from her run. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair wild, yet she still manages to look annoyed.

He freezes, blinking in surprise as she crosses her arms.

"Well?"

"You're very right. I did not." He runs his fingers down the face of the blade, parting the bloodstains.

"Any reason why?"

He smirks and glances up at her, leaning back against a tree. "It didn't seem important at the time." He raises his fingers to eye-level and rubs them together, seemingly ignoring the irritated Nord in front of him.

She stalks over and grabs his raised hand, yanking it away from his face and forcing him to look at her. "I don't know, that whole episode was pretty dramatic, even for you." Her narrowed eyes meet his, and she blows out air. "I told you I didn't care about the ordeal, but apparently you did."

"Aren't you so very glad that I saw through your lie?"

She rolls her eyes. "Not really."

* * *

><p>As soon as they're lying back down, this time in Dawnstar's inn, they're again able to speak softly and freely. She uses this time to yawn and reiterate to him how exhausted she is.<p>

He responds by running his coarse hands through her hair.

Her head falls to the pillow, reveling in the contact she is all but used to now. She closes her eyes, but can feel his still on her. The sensation is no longer unwelcome, and she even feels slightly empowered by it. She curls into his body heat (scarce though it may be, it's still there) and feels herself drifting toward sleep.

He mumbles something and she hears it, low and indiscernible, in his chest. Her eyes flutter half-open and she cranes her neck to look at him. "Hmm?"

"Nothing."

She smiles sleepily and cocks her head. "No, what did you say?"

"I asked you how many times you've considered kissing me."

She shakes her head and returns it to her spot against his chest. "Thousands."

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement and continues admiring her hair. She dozes off.


	3. Chapter 3

"You think it hasn't been tried before?"

The Dragonborn ignores the question and readies another arrow.

"You think you're some special case, right? Just because you can Shout and talk to dragons?" The Vigilant turns to the side as best as she can and spits red across the ground. Her breath, shorter than ever, comes inward in gasps and outward in cackles.

"You know, I thought you'd be better at begging for mercy," the assailant jabs, bow slightly steadier than her voice.

Sensing the Nord's hesitation, the Vigilant retaliates. "You know nothing about mercy! And you won't up until the day It kills you!"

The Dragonborn doesn't have time to consider this answer, because before the Vigilant of Stendarr can take another breath, a Daedric greatsword cleaves her head from her body.

"Tell me you weren't listening to that," the blade's owner drawls, already swinging the sword onto his back. "It's the same drivel we've heard a hundred times before."

The Nord idly begins collecting arrows from the ground, face unsuitably puzzled for the simple task her hands are doing. "…Did she say my mercy was going to kill me?"

The Kynreeve only pauses momentarily before turning back toward the path. "Don't be so naïve."

* * *

><p>Before they can leave Skyrim, the Nordic woman falls ill. Donning his cloak, he drags her to an alchemist and demands that they stop traveling until she gets better. And she does get better. Bit by bit, the Dremora realizes that she's not going to die. Bit by bit, he also realizes that she's going to die.<p>

* * *

><p>Their current place of residence is an abandoned mineshaft under Winterhold. While the Dragonborn sleeps, the Kynreeve keeps watch at the mouth of the cave. He should be sleeping too, but there's a restlessness clawing at the pit of his stomach, keeping him standing at the edge of the snow like a sentinel. Something's different tonight.<p>

"Can't sleep, or kicked out?"

There it is.

The Dremora turns to the voice. It doesn't come from the mineshaft, but instead from the snow-blanketed cliffs outside. Out of the night materializes a figure, pitch black against the gray-white backdrop.

The Daedra's back straightens, stiffens, with recognition. "My lord," he addresses the other cordially.

Sanguine stands before him, the scarlet of his armor glowing through the light layer of snow accumulating on it.

"So," the Prince bellows, "it looks like you haven't come back yet! Surprising, surprising. You still don't regret staying here?"

Taken aback, the Dremora allows himself a few seconds of thought before responding. "No… I do not regret the decision. Not for a moment."

"Give it time! You've got plenty of it. She might not. But you can't hold out forever." He pauses for the moment it takes for the Kynreeve to wince almost-imperceptibly. "Most of the others cracked by now."

"The others?" the lesser Dremora repeats carefully.

"You guys can never handle being here for too long. Always begging to come back, once you get what you want. That's what happens when you think about the short-term, instead of the big picture." Sanguine peers out into the snow, a sardonic smile arresting his lips.

The Kynreeve nods, also turning to watch the storm. "You're right, it might yet happen. Once there's nothing for me here, I'll have no choice but to go back."

"Right, right. This was all for some dame. That's usually the reason, too. I'm surprised you haven't gotten bored of her though." When he gets no response, Sanguine presses on. "Most of the time, they'd have killed the girl by now."

The Kynreeve's eyes dart to meet the Prince's in a sidelong glance.

"Oh! So that's the problem. Excuse me, maybe I should go find an expert for this. Tell me, how would you like answering to Dibella for the rest of eternity?" Sanguine punctuates the question with a cackle. The Kynreeve, thoroughly not amused, glares stoically into the snow. "Well, I guess there's a first for everything. Leave it to the Dragonborn to whip one of my soldiers." Sanguine takes a step outside. "See you when she dies, which could be any day now. Mortals are fun, but they're ephemeral. Get your kicks out of her while you can."

Without another word, Sanguine disappears into the snow, leaving the Dremora alone, bathed in torchlight, but feeling very, very cold.

* * *

><p>"But," the Dragonborn objects breathlessly, "we're not married."<p>

The statement, however, gives neither of them pause in their current actions. It only brings up his response, "I did not think you one for tradition."

Giggling, she nods. "I can make an exception."

This makes him pause for just long enough to say, "You are not dragging me into a temple of Mara after this."

The tone of his voice and the feeling of his hands are just persuasive enough that she doesn't argue.

* * *

><p>One early morning, after waking up, still draped over him, the Nordic woman comes to a realization.<p>

"Are you up?" she whispers, eyes straining in the pre-dawn darkness.

He grunts in response. She hears it low in his throat, where her ear is still pressed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she announces quietly.

He blinks his eyes open. "Certainly not, in your current state of dress."

She snorts. "No, not right now. I mean, I'm not going anywhere. For a long time."

"How long?" he challenges, pulling the blanket across her bare shoulders.

"I don't know. But I know you've been worried about it lately. But I'm here now. And I will be for as long as I can."

"I know that."

"Okay."

They're silent for a few dazed, thoughtful seconds.

"Thank you," he finally says.

"You're welcome. Nothing's going to kill me, especially with you around."

The Dremora props himself up on his elbows, an amused expression on his face. "Not even your mercy?" he laughs.

"Oh yeah!" The woman sits up. "I finally figured out what that Vigilant meant. She wasn't saying that my mercy would kill me." She knits her eyebrows together. "She meant that you'd kill me."

Her partner, her companion, her lover, nods. "That seems to be the popular assumption."

She groans in frustration. "Why does everybody think that?"

Sparing a laugh, he answers in the most truthful way he can. "They have no idea how stubborn you are."

"Damn straight," she agrees, lying on his shoulder. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Certainly not." He runs a hand through her hair. "Especially in your current state of dress."


End file.
